Hyacinth

(Hyacinthus orientalis)

In the literary myth, Hyacinth was a beautiful youth and lover of the god Apollo, though he was also admired by West Wind Zephyr. Apollo and Hyacinth took turns throwing the discus. Hyacinth ran to catch it to impress Apollo, was struck by the discus as it fell to the ground, and died.

A twist in the tale makes the wind god Zephyer responsible for the death of Hyacinth. His beauty caused a feud between Zephyrus and Apollo. Jealous that Hyacinth preferred the radiant archery god Apollo, Zephyrus blew Apollo's discus off course, so as to injure and kill Hyacinth. When he died, Apollo didn't allow Hades to claim the youth; rather, he made a flower, the hyacinth, from his spilled blood. According to Ovid's account, the tears of Apollo stained the newly formed flower's petals with the sign of his grief. The flower of the mythological Hyacinth has been identified with a number of plants other than the true hyacinth, such as the iris.  

Hyacinth grows from a bulb with a thick stalk-like stem.  The stem holds multiple floret blooms that emit a powerful perfume.  Hyacinth comes in a range of colors from white to yellow, pinks and purples to blues. 

buttercup

 

Call her buttercup, daffodil, narcissus, or jonquil any way you call her she is the unmistakable mark of spring's arrival... the sprouts of green poking through the ground from her buried bulb is a telltale sign that warmer days are coming. 

  

I wandered lonely as a cloud 

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth